A Life Made Right
by Flaignhan
Summary: Snoke was dead, to begin with. [It's A Christmas Carol, but in space, and with no Christmas. But it is a redemption-fest. Enjoy!]
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **I love A Christmas Carol, so obviously needed to write a Star Wars version. I know I said I would solely be posting to AO3 going forward, which is true, but as this has a limited shelf life, I thought I'd whack it up here, too. Enjoy, and Merry Christmas.

* * *

**A Life Made Right**

**by Flaignhan**

**ONE**

* * *

Snoke was dead, to begin with.

The fleet was in disarray, the command ship torn asunder, and he, Kylo Ren, had been humiliated on Crait. Humiliated in front of his troops, in front of Hux, in front of _Skywalker_, and in front of his mother.

And Rey.

The last he had seen of her, through their connection, she had sealed the door of the Falcon on him. She had flown away with the Resistance, and he had _let her_.

_Weak_.

Snoke's voice, at the back of his mind. Less real now, an echo of its former self. But still tormenting him, even from beyond the grave.

The connection had been a fallacy, clearly. Manufactured by Snoke to manipulate him, to try and draw Rey in. He had of course underestimated her stubbornness, but Ren could have told him of that, if only he'd bothered to ask.

He could have told him a lot of things. And maybe he wouldn't have had to waste his time with her. Maybe he wouldn't have had to spend all those hours talking to her, all those hours getting to know her.

He angrily pushes all thoughts of her to one side, but her image is engraved on the inside of his mind. That one last look she had given him, so mournful, so pitiful, before she had walked away from him forever.

Ren clenches his jaw. He had been so certain that she would join him - the vision had been so clear. The two of them, leading the galaxy, not under Snoke's rule, but their own. It could have been different, they could have stopped the bloodshed together.

But she had chosen to fight him.

Ridiculous, pig-headed girl.

"Supreme Leader, the guns are primed, do we have your permission to fire?"

"Yes." The word sounds hollow on his lips, and he hears the hum of the dreadnaught, feels the vibrations beneath his feet. He walks to the viewport, looking towards Crait in its last moments. He already knows that disintegrating the planet won't make him feel any better, but it's worth a shot. Perhaps it will silence the humiliation ringing in his ears.

_See y'around, kid._

There is a moment, where the planet collapses in on itself, before it bursts outwards. Chunks of its crimson crust propel into the atmosphere, and then there is a blinding flash of light - one that he forces himself to witness - as the core finally explodes.

If nothing else, he has decreased the surplus of old rebel bases.

But there's little satisfaction in that.

He decides to retreat to his quarters - temporary ones, prepared in a hurry now that his former ones are a burning wreck, floating through the galaxy.

He had spoken to her so many times there. She had visited him, exchanged soft words with him in the dead of night while she had been training. And he had turned her against _Skywalker_. She had come to him, because she knew, because she _understood_.

So he thought.

It had just been her own agenda fueling her. Nothing more.

But now those rooms are destroyed, and he need not think about them - or her - ever again.

The day has taken far too much from him. He is exhausted. He takes two wrong turns trying to find his temporary quarters, and by the time he arrives, his shoulders are throbbing, the scars inflicted by the Praetorian guards seeping into his consciousness.

He can only block out the pain for so long.

The door panel requires a thumbprint to open for him - and him alone. Ren pulls off his glove, his hands sweaty and sore, and pushes his thumb against the panel.

It doesn't do anything.

He huffs, and presses his thumb against it again, this time more firmly. The screen flickers, and for an instant, he is certain he sees…

He's exhausted though. And so much has happened in the last few hours alone. His mind must be playing tricks on him.

_Weak_.

Snoke's face glares up at him from the panel, and Ren withdraws his thumb as though he's been burned. He takes a step back, and another, and another, until his back collides with the opposite wall, the metal sending a jolt through his battle wounds.

He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes and focuses, clearing his mind of the jumble of events swirling around inside. When he lowers his hands, he looks at the panel again.

It's blank.

Ren releases a shaky sigh and steps towards it again. He picks up his glove - dropped in the panic - and presses his thumb against the control. The lights glow green, and the door hisses, allowing him entry.

Once inside, he deadlocks the door. He refuses to be disturbed tonight.

He unhooks his lightsaber from his belt and sets it down on the desk. Then he unclips his belt, casting that aside too. Off come the layers, the cloak, the tunic, the boots, until he can see the damage the day has done to him.

In the second drawer of the desk he finds a medical kit, and dabs some burn paste onto the raw red lines lashed across his shoulders. He discards the tin, and takes a seat at the table. Food has been left for him, and he picks at it tiredly, the red flashes of the Praetorian guards' weapons whirling through his mind.

His heart is still racing, just a little.

The food is tasteless in his mouth, dry and coarse. He takes a sip of water, but it does little to make the meal more palatable. He lets out a sigh, slumping back in his chair, the cold of the metal floor seeping through his socks and into the soles of his feet. He presses his hands to his face, closing his eyes, and tries to imagine that he's anywhere else.

His mind presents a fireplace to him, warmth emanating from it, and for a moment he feels content - cosy, almost - surrounded by an orange glow. But then a slight hand reaches across, fingers tentatively reaching towards his own.

Ren sits bolt upright. He will _not_ think about her. She has betrayed him, after he saved her _life_. Surely, _surely_ him risking everything would have warranted at least a moment's consideration from her? And to think, she thought he would actually move over to the light. Darkness was power, and Ren liked it. She would come round to his way of thinking. Eventually.

Selfish girl.

"Wallowing in self-pity, I see."

Ren's blood runs cold at the sound of his voice, and without his uniform, he feels naked, vulnerable. He can feel his lower lip trembling, and he clamps his jaw shut, arresting the quiver, before he turns to look at Snoke.

He's a vision. Or a hologram. Or a projection. Ren isn't sure, but either way, he's not _welcome_.

"I killed you," he breathes, his courage stifled by his fear. "I killed you, and all of your guards."

Snoke nods, his cold blue eyes staring out of his awful, misshapen face. He is translucent, and through his torso, Ren can see his lightsaber, on the desk behind Snoke. It wouldn't do him any good anyway. Snoke isn't really here. Ren's not sure if Snoke is even alive. This could be a force ghost. He could have found a way…

"You killed me for the girl who won't even look at you anymore," Snoke tells him, and he might as well be prodding an open wound with one of his gnarled fingers. "And now you sit here, on your own, in these sparse quarters, because the Resistance destroyed your command ship. What a _sorry_ Supreme Leader you make."

"Nobody could have predicted what they would do," Ren begins. "It was a suicide mission, we could hardly - "

"All while you were distracted with the girl," Snoke snarls. "_Pathetic_."

"You're not even _here_!" Ren spits, getting to his feet, his fists clenched. "You're not even _real_. You're _dead_, and _I'm_ the Supreme Leader now." He realises how childish the words sound even as he hisses them.

"You're not leading _anything_," Snoke growls. "You're losing, Ren. You're going to lose it all. Mark my words."

"I won't," Ren, argues, taking a step towards Snoke's image. "I don't have to listen to you anymore. You're just a voice inside my head, you don't mean _anything _to _anybody_."

Snoke chuckles - it's cold and humourless, and it makes Ren's skin crawl. "You will lose everything, my young apprentice. And it will hurt far worse than this, when you see it all decay before your eyes."

"Get _out_!" Ren yells, and before he knows what he's doing, his lightsaber is in his hand, the blade glowing and crackling. His knuckles are popping under the skin, making his skin burn even paler than usual.

But Snoke just laughs, and fades away, taking his mirth with him.

Ren's disarms his lightsaber, and sinks back into his chair. Cold sweat trickles down the nape of his neck, finding a path along his spine. His breath is coming in short ragged gasps, his mouth drier than ever.

He slams his lightsaber down on the table, and grabs his cup, draining the water from it.

It doesn't help him process things. He can't put things together, can't understand how Snoke could be here, in his quarters. It must be his mind playing tricks on him. It must be. Perhaps Snoke's appearance is a symptom of delusion, brought on by exhaustion. Or perhaps the meal has disagreed with him. The vision could just as easily be traced back to an undigested bit of bread. Or perhaps a reaction to the burn paste.

Whatever its cause, he's had enough. He cannot sit here and contemplate an eternity of being haunted by Snoke. If that's his fate, he might as well pitch himself off of the hangar door now, and find silence in the darkness.

His legs feel like jelly when he stands, and it's a tremorous hand that takes the lightsaber from the table. He breathes deeply - once, twice, three times - and then steps over to the bed, sliding under the blanket. He tries - and fails - to find a comfortable position on the solid mattress. The pillow is a little too flat, the blanket a little too thin.

He stares up at the ceiling, his lightsaber clutched against his chest. He feels wide awake, but somehow, at some point, he descends into a dreamless sleep.

But then the door panel bleeps once, announcing that one o'clock has arrived.

Ren wakes with a start.


	2. Chapter 2

**A Life Made Right**

**by Flaignhan**

**TWO**

* * *

"Hey kid."

It's been hours - _hours_ \- and he is here _again_? It's worse than Snoke, and as Ren's eyes adjust to the light, he feels the stomach acid rising in his throat.

Skywalker is surrounded by a blue haze. He - like Snoke - is translucent. But he - unlike Snoke - is a true force ghost. Which makes Snoke - he doesn't know what. A nightmare, perhaps. A hallucination. But _not_ a force ghost.

It answers one question for Ren at least: Skywalker is definitely dead. The day holds one blessing, amongst the horror.

"What's the matter?" Skywalker asks. "I thought you'd be missing me already."

Ren shakes his head and looks away. He blames it on the light, which flickers a little at the edges, but he cannot look into his former master's face. He cannot bear the sight of Ben Solo's uncle, with his face so lined and haggard, after all these years.

"Womp rat got your tongue, huh?" Skywalker says, taking an uninvited seat on the edge of Ren's bed. Still, Ren refuses to look at him. This is all some cruel trick, probably designed by Rey, to punish him for some perceived slight. She probably thinks that the shattered lightsaber is his fault - but she was the one who stole it - from _him_. His _family_ lightsaber.

"Oh ho," Skywalker says. "So we're still family, huh?"

Ren turns to look at him, his brow creased. "I didn't say that out loud."

"Ben," Skywalker sighs, "I can read you like a _book_."

The name doesn't sit right. Ren had only just about managed to tolerate it when Rey had used it. But it should have been a sign that he couldn't trust her.

"It's a fine mess," he continues, ignoring Ren's scowl. "But I made plenty of my own messes, back in the day."

"I'm sure," Ren mutters, and he turns away from Skywalker. He lies down again, on his side this time, one arm tucked under the pillow to raise it up into a comfortable position.

The blanket is still too thin.

"You can't just sit this one out, Ben."

He can. He _will_. He doesn't have to do anything, or listen to anything, or even _acknowledge_ anything. It will only torment him if he lets it, and he refuses. He closes his eyes, clears his mind, but there is a nagging there. It's as though the light surrounding Skywalker has increased, to the point where he can even detect its luminosity through his eyelids. He covers his head with his other arm, hand gripping his hair at the back of his head.

"I mean I can wait," Skywalker says, his tone irritatingly casual. "Or we can get this over with."

"Get _what_ over with?" Ren lifts his arm - just a touch. The dangled hope of an end to this torture is enough to pique his attention. He could be convinced to comply, if it means Skywalker is gone sooner.

"You'll see."

"No, I won't." Ren's arm flops back down. He won't play games. He won't get wrapped up in some silly contest to see who can outsmart who. He can outsmart Skywalker by refusing to engage whatsoever. He's not going to sit around here forever. He'll get _bored_.

"I've got all the time in the world, kid."

"_Don't_ call me _kid_." He's sitting up now, his blanket pooling in his lap. He glares at Skywalker, and from the corner of his eye, can see that his lightsaber has rolled to the far side of the bed.

Not that it'd do him much good. But he might feel better if he were to use it.

"Sorry," Skywalker holds up an apologetic hand. "You're a man now. I can see."

Ren chooses not to acknowledge the sarcasm. "What do you _want_?" he snaps. "You _died_ fighting me. Is it not _embarrassing_ for you to be here?"

Skywalker frowns, and then he lets out a short laugh. It's not like Snoke's. Not at all. Even though it's laughter at Ren's expense, there's still warmth to it, and bizarrely, a sense of affection hangs in Skywalker's gaze.

"Ben, I died saving your _mother_ from you. I died saving the _Resistance_ from you. And I died trying to save you from _yourself_."

The words cause the muscles in Ren's forearms to tense painfully, his fingertips digging into the mattress, one knuckle cracking under the pressure.

"And guess what kid?" The nickname rankles, and Skywalker continues - leaning forward, his eyes boring into Ren's own. "I'm still not done trying to save you."

"I don't _need_ saving," Ren snaps, tossing back his blanket and throwing himself to his feet. He begins to pace, but he realises that as he's slept, a single sock has migrated from his foot, caught up somewhere in his blanket. The metal floor is icy cold against the sole of his foot, and as he paces, he makes an asymmetric sound - a _thud slap, thud slap, thud slap _\- with every pointed stamp.

"We'll have to agree to disagree on that for now," Skywalker replies, his eyes following him as he paces back and forth.

"I'm not a _victim_," Ren spits, and even as he says it, he can feel his throat tighten, his eyes itch. It's tiredness. Of _course _it's tiredness. It couldn't be anything else. He's been through so much today, and even he, _even_ Kylo Ren, needs to rest sometimes.

Especially when he's delusional.

"Are you sure about that?"

The question is madenning, and he can't stop himself from kicking out at the corner of the desk. It hurts, the resultant clang echoing around his quarters, and he hears an intake of breath from Skywalker - a sound that he supposes is meant to be sympathetic to his pain.

"How's that voice in your head?"

Ren turns on his heel to face Skywalker, holding one shaking index finger before him. "I _killed_ the voice in my head. Just like I killed_ you_."

Skywalker shakes his head, his ruffled eyebrows drawing together as he assesses Ren, leaning forward. Ren refuses to break first, his finger still drawn between them, as Skywalker narrows his eyes.

"You can still hear it," he says softly. "And oh...doesn't that _worry_ _you_…"

Ren turns away. This must be a trick, a hallucination. It can't be anything else. He can't possibly be that transparent, not to Skywalker, of all people.

"Come with me, Ben." Skywalker's voice is grave now, and when Ren turns, his hand is outstretched, waiting for Ren to take it.

"No," Ren laughs. "No I won't."

"We can do this the easy way," Skywalker says gruffly. "Where you take my hand. Or…"

Ren raises an eyebrow, waiting to hear exactly what the hard way entails.

"I can drag you kicking and screaming."

Ren shakes his head. "Neither." He's not obliged to go along with this - whatever it is. And no hallucination, no force ghost, can make him do anything he doesn't want to.

"Ben."

"Stop calling me _Ben_!" The words come out in a strangled yell, and Ren turns away as a single hot tear spills down his cheek. He won't accept it. He won't accept his past being thrown at him like this. In his own quarters, on his own _ship_.

He presses the back of his hand against his mouth. He's shaking, and he's disgusted with himself.

He feels a hand on his shoulder - gentle, and very obviously avoiding his battle wounds. He wants to cry.

"Come on," Skywalker says, his voice close, and kind.

"Where are we going?" The words crack on his vocal cords, betraying another sign of weakness. Snoke was right. He's _pathetic_.

"You'll see."

It's no use. Skywalker won't leave until he is satisfied. And so Ren holds out a hand. He doesn't look at Skywalker, but he feels the warmth of his touch.

The world falls out from beneath him, and reforms in an instant. And in an instant, he knows exactly where he is.

It's home.

His mother is sitting by the fireplace reading, her feet tucked beneath her, while one hand twirls a loose tendril of hair between her fingers. His father is snoozing quietly in a chair. He remembers this day - his father had given him his first flying lesson, much to his mother's disapproval.

He'd crashed the speeder, which explains the scab on his younger self's forehead. He's cuddled up next to his mother, looking at the pages of her book, turning them for her whenever she moves her thumb off the edge.

He is content.

"Ben? You wanna come and help me beat your uncle Chewie?"

Ren turns, at the same time as his younger self. Skywalker's younger counterpart is sitting at the table with Chewbacca, a game of Dejarik between them. Even at a glance, Ren can tell that Skywalker's game is beyond saving. His younger self is a little more optimistic, and he extricates himself from his mother and trots over to them.

Skywalker pulls the young boy into his lap, ruffling his hair affectionately before pointing out all of his pieces to him.

"What do you think the next move should be?" Skywalker asks conspiratorially. He glances across to Chewbacca, who lets out a short huff through his nose, unnoticed by Ben.

Ben chooses the move, taking one of Chewbacca's smaller pieces. But the wookiee's next move is a deliberate sabotage to his own game. It turns the tables, and Ben is able to lead both him and Skywalker to victory.

Ren turns to Skywalker's ghost. He has helped himself to a cup of wine, has perched on the end of the couch, making himself almost as much at home as his younger self.

"Do you remember this?" he asks.

Ren ignores him, and at that moment, his father snorts himself awake and sits up, disoriented. His mother's lips twitch in amusement as she turns the page of her book. His father gets to his feet and approaches the Dejarik table.

"Come on kid," he says, and the sound of his voice echoes through Ren, cleaving his soul in two. "Time for bed."

Ben allows himself to be swept up into his father's arms, and taken over to his mother to say goodnight. His father tilts him downwards, until he is nearly hanging upside down, and his mother presses a kiss to his forehead, one soft hand resting tenderly against his round cheek.

"Goodnight honey," she says.

Of course he remembers it. He remembers how her lips had carefully avoided his piloting injury, how her touch had lingered, warm against his skin, and how Skywalker had called a goodnight to him, while Chewbacca had echoed the sentiments.

"Come on," Skywalker says, holding out a translucent hand. Ren takes it without thinking, glad to leave this shrine to the past far far behind.

They don't move very far however. They're outside his bedroom now, and the voice coming from inside is not that of a little boy, but that of a teenager.

"I don't _want _to come out!"

His father, greyer, his face more lined, is leaning against the door, exasperated. "I thought we were gonna go flying?" he says, and he half laughs, bewildered by the response he's getting. "Come on kid, we planned this a week ago!"

"Don't call me _kid_!"

Ren's pulse heightens at the memory, the rawness in the teenager's voice. He remembers those words shredding his vocal cords. He remembers wanting to fly, but to fly away and not come back. To not be with his father, or Chewbacca, or Skywalker, or any other conceivable co-pilot.

"To hell with it," his father sighs. "You come out when you've lost the attitude. If all you're gonna do is throw a tantrum, you won't be much of a co-pilot." He walks away, disappearing down the corridor.

Skywalker grabs him by the arm and drags him through the wall of his old bedroom. The sensation turns his stomach, but when his eyes refocus in the dim light, he sees himself, nearly as tall as he is now, but far far skinnier. He's pacing relentlessly, anger coursing through him.

And then he sinks.

He crouches down, his chin tucked against his chest, hands gripping his hair. It's only now that they can hear what he's tearfully saying, over and over and over.

"Shut up, shut up, _shut up_."

The words dissolve into sobs, and Ben Solo rocks back and forth on his bedroom floor, the voice in his head too much to bear.

"Ben?"

It's his mother.

"Go _away_!" he shrieks. His red-rimmed eyes are visible for just a second before he buries himself again.

"Time to go?" Skywalker asks.

Ren's nod takes monumental effort, and Skywalker takes him by the hand. The world dissolves around him, condemning his teenage self to the abyss.

When it reforms, he's in his bed, shaking and sweating. Skywalker is nowhere to be seen. Ren stumbles to the bathroom, vomiting his meagre dinner into the sink. The acid burns his throat, but the memories are far more painful. To go from such contentment to such abject misery in just a few years…

He splashes cold water over his face, dampening the collar of his undershirt. His sockless foot is numb from cold, and he wipes his face with a towel before heading back to his room to find the rogue garment.

Before he can reach the bed, the door panel bleeps twice.

Two o'clock.


	3. Chapter 3

**A Life Made Right**

**by Flaignhan**

**THREE**

* * *

"Hey kid."

Ren wants to throw up again, but there's nothing but bile swirling around in his stomach. That voice is grief personified. That man…

"Son?"

He turns, giving in. He's a mess, and he can't hide that anymore, least of all from his father.

Solo lets out a sigh as he lays eyes on him. His brown eyes drink in the tragedy that is his only son - battle torn clothes, burns, his _scar_, and who can forget his stupid sockless foot?

"_Dad_." The word comes involuntarily, but today has been too much. The torment that Skywalker had shown him, the jarring memories that he has tried so hard to forget.

He had pushed them away.

His father takes a step forward, his semi-solid form automatically embracing him. Ren sinks into it, burying his face into his father's shoulder, inhaling deeply. The scent of his leather jacket pushes him to the verge of tears. It's a wrench to pull away, but he does, sniffing, and his dad wipes the tear residue from his cheeks with a rough tipped thumb.

"How you holding up, kid?"

The question is too difficult to answer, and Ren swallows the lump in his throat to respond with a non-question.

"You're not a force ghost."

His dad shakes his head.

"Then what are you?" He sniffs again, the edge of his vision blurred with unwanted emotion.

"I'm all the me that you've got stored up in you," his dad replies.

It doesn't make a lot of sense, but nothing that's happened to him this evening does. He's too tired to fight it, and so when his dad holds out a hand, he takes it without question, without argument.

The world dissolves, but again, he recognises exactly where he is when it reforms.

It's the Falcon.

But it's not the Falcon as he remembers it; stacked with crates of goodness knows what, the corridors empty bar him, his father, and Chewbacca. This Falcon is full of people, a handful of whom he recognises - Threepio and Artoo for a start, and the droid he'd been looking for on Jakku.

The pilot is there too - the one who had escaped with FN-2187.

"They just threw _everything _at him," the pilot says animatedly, regaling a few tired Resistance fighters with his tale. "And guess what?"

"What?"

"Didn't _touch_ him." The pilot sits back, letting the sentence land with his audience, their mouths agape.

"You're kidding?"

"Not a _scratch_," he says, leaning forward to continue. "Then Ren himself comes down, ready to duel him. Doesn't land a _single_ blow."

"That's not true," Ren says under his breath.

His dad turns his head to look at him, raising one grey eyebrow. He holds his gaze for a moment, before he takes a step towards the rear of the ship. Ren knows where they're going, and his stomach ties itself in knots as they weave through the crowd. The metal grille floor is painful against Ren's feet, but he keeps going, until his dad leads him into his old room.

It's a small space, room for just one narrow bunk and some storage lockers above it, but it had been _his_.

Rey's there, with his mother. They're sitting on the bed, talking quietly, away from the busyness of the rest of the ship.

There's a burn on Rey's shoulder, surrounded by a thin residue of burn paste.

"Is this now?" Ren asks, turning to his dad.

"You betcha," he replies. He leans back against the wall and folds his arms, watching as the conversation unfolds in front of them.

"I really thought…" Rey begins, but she sighs and trails off. When she speaks again, her voice cracks. He recognises the same emotion in her that he's felt in his own voice this evening. "I just thought that he'd come away with me. That he'd _realise_."

It's rich, coming from her.

"I know," says his mom. "I know you did." She puts an arm around Rey, pulling her into a hug, and Ren feels a sharp pang of jealousy that cuts far deeper than it should.

"I just want him to…" Rey trails off again, and he can tell she's tired. She always loses her train of thought when she's sleepy. Their late night connections across the force bond had taught him as much. She shakes her head, burying her face in her hands. "Snoke said our connection was created by him, and I was sure, I was so _sure_ it was _real_."

Ren swallows. The news of their forced connection has taken just as much of a toll on him. He's glad that Snoke is dead at the very least. It's what he deserves for playing with them like a pair of dolls, toying with their emotions. Their connection had given rise to the closest thing that he's had to a friendship in the last fifteen years. And all of it had been a lie.

"When we were fighting together," Rey continues, and she turns to look at his mom, her brow creased with confusion and exhaustion, "I've never felt connected to _anyone_ like that. It's like we were the same _person_."

His mom tightens her grip on Rey, resting her cheek against the top of Rey's head. "I just want him to come back to the light. I don't want to keep fighting him forever, I can't _bear it_," Rey says, her voice slightly muffled as she speaks into his mom's shoulder. "I can feel the good in him, and he...he _deserves_ to be happy."

Ren can feel his dad's gaze on him. It's a few seconds before he turns to meet it, unable to tear his eyes away from Rey, and his mother, who is wiping a stray tear from her cheek.

"She cares about you," his dad says. He lets the words hang in the air, as though they're supposed to mean anything on their own.

"Our connection was a lie," Ren says, looking down at his mismatched feet. He curls his toes around the gaps in the grated floor and leans back against the wall. The cool metal feels good through his undershirt, grounding him to something that's vaguely like a reality.

"Maybe Snoke lied," his dad says to him. "He doesn't really strike me as the honest type."

Ren lets out a sniff of laughter at the understatement. He's not convinced. But even so, they had seen each other on Crait, long after Snoke had been destroyed. He closes his eyes and rests his head back against the wall. It's too much to think about right now. All of it is far too painful.

"She's a good kid," his dad says quietly. Again, a searing pang of jealousy tears through him.

"The daughter you always wanted, I suppose?" he says bitterly. He opens his eyes and tilts his head to see his dad. He'd expected a reaction that would confirm his theory - that both his mother and father would have much rather have had Rey instead of him.

And oh, how she had yearned for a family. He had felt that every time they had connected. Well she's welcome to his. Or what's left of it.

"You're the son we always wanted," his father replies, paying no mind to the venom in Ren's words.

"Even now?" he says with a shadow of a laugh.

"_Yeah_," his father says, shouldering himself away from the wall and stepping in front of him. "Ben, your mother and I, we want you back more than _anything_."

"So you don't want me as I am," he confirms. "You want a son who doesn't exist anymore." Of course, they have idealised him, created a rose-tinted version of him that they wish to pluck from the past and install in the present. But he won't cave, he _won't_. He is who he is, and nothing they say will ever change that.

"We want the person you really are," his father counters. "Not this facade that Snoke has created for you. You're not a murderous machine that he's engineered. You're _you_, the kid that used to sit up late at night drawing the constellations and planning which ones you wanted to fly to first."

There are no constellations he hasn't seen now. He has been all over the galaxy. None of it holds any pleasure for him anymore. Snoke had had him burn those journals the day he had joined the First Order. He'd only been allowed to keep the clothes on his back, and even those had soon been exchanged for a uniform.

"I think I miss him," Rey murmurs. "Already."

His mom presses her lips together and looks up to the ceiling, swallowing before she replies. "I miss him too. Every damn day."

Rey loops her arm around his mom's waist, cuddling closer against her, desperately craving comfort.

"You think any of your First Order would miss you? D'you think they love you like this?"

He doesn't answer the question. The First Order isn't built on love. It's an army, and his father is wilfully misunderstanding the point of it. But even so, the words - both Rey's and his mother's - echo around his heart. It's like they're dancing around it, mocking it, with an 'I told you so' sneer.

"Ben -"

"That's not my name," he says quickly. Despite its speed, the objection is half-hearted; shot down with a quirk of his dad's eyebrow and a lopsided grimace. That _look_. That look he'd received hundreds - no, _thousands_ \- of times. It had always stopped his mom in her tracks, if she'd been lecturing them about being too reckless on the speeder, for being far too late home, or for sneaking Pyollian cake before dinner.

"_Ben_," he says again, this time to no objection. Ben knows what's coming. The appeal - the plea. He looks away.

"Dad, it's too late."

"Hey," he says, reaching forward a hand to gently tilt Ben's face back to look at him. "It's _never_ too late. A life _can_ be made right."

Ben can't find it within himself to believe him - or argue.

"Come on," his dad says, holding out a hand. "Time to go."

Ben reaches out for the hand instinctively, but then withdraws it sharply. He knows by now what this means. He will be deposited back in his quarters, sweaty, nauseated, and traumatised. His head will be reeling from what he's seen - the Resistance, laughing at him, Rey and her grief, his mom...

And his dad won't be there.

The translucent hand is still waiting expectantly before him, brown eyes searching for an answer to explain his hesitation. But Ben can't put it into words. Every time he tries to explain himself, the sentence dies in his throat, the words dissolving into nothing. But when his dad reaches forward, his fears are expelled in a jumble.

"Dad I'm not _ready_."

"You have to be." His mouth is set in a grim line. It's one of those rare occasions where his dad is entirely serious. He grips Ben's arm, and it feels far too real - the warmth, the pressure of his fingertips on his forearm, and the way his undershirt crinkles at the touch.

"Dad I'm _sorry_." It's so woefully inadequate, and now all he can see in his head is his dad, tumbling from the bridge on Starkiller Base. All he can do is relive the worst thing he's ever done.

"I know," he says. "I love ya, kid." He presses a kiss to Ben's cheek, his hand cupping his face. And then he takes him by the hand. Just like last time, he makes the decision for him.

He lands on his bed, and the tears are already streaming down his face. It's like losing him all over again. But worse this time. Worse because he's actually acknowledging the grief, rather than suppressing it. There's no battle to distract him, no duel, and no girl testing her powers.

There's just him, all alone in the darkness, and all the people he loves are far far away.

The door panel bleeps three times.

It's three o'clock.


	4. Chapter 4

**A Life Made Right**

**by Flaignhan**

**FOUR**

* * *

"Hey - "

"Who the _hell_ are you?" Ben demands. He sniffs, and wipes his face roughly with the back of his hand. Whoever this person is, he's not in the mood for strangers. He just wants to be left alone. He has endured enough.

The force ghost smiles, and takes a step forward. As Ben's eyes focus, he recognises the dark brow, so prominent in himself, and his mother. There's something about the hair, too, thick and nearly as long as Ben's, although a few shades lighter.

"I'm Anakin," he says, though Ben is half expecting the words. "I'm your grandfather."

He looks across to the wreck of Darth Vader's helmet, which had been salvaged from his quarters with the rest of his belongings before the evacuation.

"I don't think much of your design choices," he says, his lips quirking into a small smile. It's a joke, that much Ben understands, but he doesn't laugh. He hasn't laughed in years, and he has no intention of starting now.

Anakin knocks the helmet to the floor with one dismissive wave of his hand. Ben can't be bothered to argue with him. Instead, he lifts his blanket to try and find his wayward sock. There was a time when a conversation with his grandfather would have meant everything to him. But this smug idiot - younger than his parents - is not what he needs, not after his conversation with his dad. Not after losing him again.

And Rey. Somewhere, across the galaxy, she is missing him, devastated by their fight. Just as he is. He reaches out, trying to find her, but Anakin interrupts.

"There'll be time to talk to your girlfriend later," he says. "You must know the drill by now." He holds out a hand, and Ben, still with one cold foot, begrudgingly takes it.

It doesn't matter because his feet land on hot - baking hot - sand. He doesn't know where they are - it could be Jakku, or Tattooine, or even Morband. But in the distance he can see a red lightsaber clashing against a blue one.

Anakin lets out a sound of displeasure. "This place is disgusting," he says, and he gives Ben a look as though it's his fault he's even here. "Come on."

They traipse across the sand towards the duel. Ben knows what they're going to encounter before they even arrive. The two of them are moving so fast that their lightsabers are a blur. He's wearing faded black - she faded grey. She's changed her hairstyle too. Braids keep her hair from her face, and converge to form a twisted knot at the nape of her neck.

"Do you see it yet?" Anakin asks.

"What?"

"Keep watching," he says.

Kylo Ren extends a clawed hand and Rey flies through the air, landing awkwardly on the sand. She lets a grunt of pain, and Ben has to fight the urge to go to her.

"Rey, just give _up_."

"_No!_" She hauls herself to her feet, standing gingerly on her injured ankle, and it's only now, during the pause in the fight, that Ben sees what Anakin is talking about.

Rey's face is lined, her skin weathered. She bears decades' worth of scars and her eyes are tired, her spirit broken. Ben looks across to Kylo Ren, who has been dealt an equally harsh hand by the passage of time. One of his legs is now mechanical, there is a burn scar along his jawline, and his dark hair is flecked with grey. The harsh sunlight only serves to exacerbate the bags under his eyes, eyes which are bloodshot, exhausted.

"Why don't they stop?"

"They've been fighting for over forty years," Anakin tells him with a shrug. "Why would they stop now?"

"Rey, don't make me do this." Ren's voice cracks as he addresses her, stepping towards her across the sand.

"Just _do it _Ben," she snaps. "Get it over with." She's harder than the Rey that Ben knows. All the kindness and compassion crushed out of her by decades of brutality.

Ren is holding the lightsaber, and Ben's heart freezes in his chest. He's not going to do it. He can't _possibly _do it.

He turns to Anakin again, who is watching the scene dispassionately.

"Tell me he's not gonna do it," Ben implores him. "He's not going to kill her. Anakin, _tell me_ he's not going to _kill her_."

Anakin smiles sadly. "This your future, Ben. This is what the dark side does to people. It turns them into monsters, and they lose the people they love."

Ben shakes his head, and all the while, Kylo Ren draws closer to Rey, who extinguishes her lightsaber and tosses it into the sand. She has made her choice, and Ben can't bear it. He's still holding out for a miracle, that after forty years, one of them will budge. That she will change her mind.

"Rey, _please_ don't make me do this." His voice is tired, old, and the sound of it makes a gaping sadness echo through Ben. Ren looks down at his lightsaber, then back to Rey, standing stubbornly in the sand, completely unprotected.

"Last chance Ben," she whispers. "Last chance."

"You know I can't," he says, and the coward won't even meet her eye.

"What are you even _fighting_ for?" Rey yells at him. She's upset now, desperately trying to hold back the tears that will inevitably come. "There's nothing _left_."

"So join me," Ren begs, his brow creased with hopelessness. "_Please_."

"I love you," she says, her head held high. Ben can tell it's not the first time the declaration has been uttered in these forty years. The way she utters it, it sounds more like a weapon than a balm. "But I wont...I would _never_."

The wind picks up, the sand whipping around them. Ben's mouth is dry, and Ren is just a step away from Rey now, his lightsaber at his side. But he won't strike, he _won't_.

"I don't want to see this," Ben says, and he turns to Anakin, shaking his head. "Take me back. _Please._"

Anakin grabs him roughly by the arm and turns him back to witness. Ben closes his eyes, but then the scene is happening inside his head, and he can't escape it, not even for a second.

Ren extinguishes his lightsaber, shaking his head minutely. His face crumples, and he rests his forehead against Rey's. She reaches up to cup his face, then meets his lips in a soft kiss.

"I can't do it," Ren says. "Not you. Never you."

"Ben, I'm so _tired_ of fighting."

"Me too," he says, his lightsaber held between them.

Rey takes one look at his face, and Ben can tell what's coming before it happens, can sense the resolve in her. With a flick of her fingers, Ren's lightsaber ignites, piercing through her. Ren screams, dropping the weapon, and it falls uselessly to the floor, its damage done.

"Rey _no_," he pleads, cradling her as he sinks down to the sand. It's too late, and he must know it. Tears stream down his face as he holds her to him.

"You win," she whispers, looking up at him. "And lucky you, I made it easy for you." Her voice is weak, but the words are very much her own. Even forty years can't change her stubbornness.

"You think this is _easy_?" Ren argues. "You were the only person that _mattered_…"

"I shouldn't have been," Rey sighs. Her eyelids flutter shut, and then that's it. Her body fades, leaving her tatty clothes in Ren's arms. He bundles up her shirt and presses it to his face, his shoulders shaking with sobs.

Ben is paralysed. This can't be the future. It can't be _his_ future, he refuses it.

"This isn't what happens."

Anakin has no sympathy. "You killed the woman you love on a disgusting planet, and for _what_? Where does it get you?" He holds out a hand. "Let's find out, shall we?"

Ben snatches at the hand, if only to get away from this terrible, terrible place.

When the floor forms beneath his feet, solid and cold, he doubles over, throwing up the remnants of bile that have been steadily rising in his throat all night. When he's done, Anakin gives him one cursory rub on the back before guiding him over to the viewport. It's dark out there.

"What am I looking at?" Ben asks with a frown. He swallows, trying to rid himself of the acidic taste in his mouth, but it only serves to increase the burn in his throat. He'd ask for some water, but he gets the distinct feeling that Anakin would transport him to the middle of a lake, just to make a point.

"I thought you knew the stars?" The question is rhetorical.

"I don't recognise this," Ben replies. He wracks his brains, searching for familiar landmarks, but there's nothing. It's a desolate landscape of darkness, punctured by a few distant glimmers.

"That," Anakin says, tapping a finger against the glass and pointing to an empty dark spot, "is where Jakku used to be."

The tense he uses makes Ben's stomach lurch.

"Used to," Anakin continues, answering the unasked question, "because you destroyed it...maybe twelve years ago, after you lost your leg."

"Out of spite?"

Anakin nods.

Ben can pick out the stars that are still there now, the planets that have scraped by, and somehow missed the culling. It's like someone has swept across the galaxy, extinguishing every light they could reach.

He knows who that someone is. His blood is cold in his veins, his intestines twisting at the thought of what this vision means for him.

"So," Anakin says breezily. "You've killed the woman you love, you've destroyed ninety per cent of the galaxy, and you're _Supreme_ Leader Ren. I suppose that makes you happy in the end."

Ben shakes his head, but Anakin takes him by the hand once more.

If he had anything left to throw up, now would be the time. Ben wretches at the smell, while Anakin covers his own nose and mouth with his sleeve.

They're in a small stone dwelling. It's freezing cold, rain lashing at the windows. There has been no fire in the grate for some time, and in the chair lies the remains of a person, clad in black.

Ben doesn't feel the need to ask the question.

"After Rey's death, you abandon the First Order, who carry on without you. You don't even have the courage to destroy your _legacy_." There is contempt in his tone, and Ben cannot blame him. "You die alone, some years later, and it's months before two strangers find you, and burn your body. They hold the ceremony as a mark of respect, but if they'd known who you were, they'd have torched the house and moved on."

The news is delivered with painstaking coldness. But Ben already knows he won't make the same mistakes as Kylo Ren.

"This isn't my future," he breathes.

Anakin shrugs. "This is what lays ahead."

"But if I _change_," Ben argues. "Things don't have to happen like this." He can't take the stench anymore, and so he turns, squinting in the dark for the door. He finds it, and pushes it open, choosing the onslaught of rain over the overwhelming odour of death.

"You fear the world too much. You fear it so much that you can only think of owning it - _controlling_ it," Anakin says looking down at the ground. He is untouched by the rain, which descends straight through his ghostly figure. Ben, however, is soaked to the bone in seconds, his one remaining sock sopping wet. "I don't think you're capable of changing as much as you need to."

"So what's the _point_?" Ben argues. "What's the point of all this? Of _you_, of my _dad_, of _Luke_? Are you just trying to _punish_ me? A life can be made right! _I_ canmake this right - I _will_ make it right."

Lightning flashes overhead, illuminating Anakin's face, his infuriating expression of pity. This _isn't_ Ben's destiny, and he opens his mouth to tell Anakin so, but his words are lost to thunder.

"Who are you making it right for? For you? For Rey?" Anakin yells above the noise.

"For Rey, of course!"

Anakin shakes his head and lets out a hollow laugh. Obviously, Ben's still not getting it. "You heard her! She _shouldn't_ be the only person that matters! You've learned _nothing_."

The judgement strikes Ben like a punch to the gut. He fumbles around for the right answer, seeking the guidance he so desperately needs so he can avoid the horror in the sand. He won't have her vanish in his arms. He won't die here alone, in this godforsaken place.

"For me too then," he bargains. "For me, so I can find the light and make things right!"

Anakin shakes his head, and starts to turn away, but then Ben realises. It's far bigger than him, or Rey, or any lone individual. He's an idiot for not seeing it sooner.

"For the galaxy," he blurts. His lips are numb from cold, arms hugged around his torso, his shirt soaked to his skin. "No more death, no more destruction. No more worlds disappearing."

Something that might be a smile starts forming on Anakin's lips. But before it can come into its own it stalls, a deep sorrow casting a shadow over his features.

"I would have given anything to save your grandmother," he says. His words are quiet, but somehow the noise of the rain has been drowned out, this reality gradually falling away from them.

"Why didn't you?"

Anakin's eyes flash. "I gave _everything_," he tells him, his voice hard. "I gave it to the people who promised me they could save her."

"Why didn't they?"

It's an empty smile that forms now, one that aches with grief and regret. His blue eyes - so unlike his own, or his mother's, but maybe a little like Luke's - are brimming with tears.

"Because they were the Sith. And they _lied_."

He understands now. The voice in his head, the one that he can banish now, has lied and lied and lied ever since he was a child. And he believed it. But no more. _No more_.

"Don't leave it too late, Ben. Don't make the same mistakes I did."

Ben shakes his head, and the world starts to fall away from him. It's too soon - there's so much he wants to ask Anakin, so much advice he needs, so much guidance. How can he be expected to do all of this on his own?

The ground is the last thing to go, and Ben catches one last look of Anakin before he falls, down, down, down into the darkness.

He wakes with a start.

His shirt is soaked with sweat, and he peels it off. Ben rolls over to check the time - it's morning. He's slept the whole night through.

He sits up and tries to make sense of it all. Of Snoke, of his _family_. But all of it defies logic and he can't fathom it into anything that remotely looks like reason. But the how and the why don't matter now. He knows what he has to do. How he'll do it is another matter entirely.

He needs a plan.


	5. Chapter 5

**A Life Made Right**

**by Flaignhan**

**FIVE**

* * *

While he showers, Ben Solo thinks.

His brain flies through scenario after scenario, trick after trick. He's at the heart of the First Order, and he has one chance to put things right - one chance to eliminate this scourge of the galaxy and go and find Rey.

Ben's insides feel light, for the first time in years, as though a heavy tumour has been cut out from the pit of his stomach. It's no longer eating away at him, and he can focus, at last, on the things he wants to do.

Snoke's voice is but a distant memory.

When he's done, Ben pulls on some clean clothes, abandoning his old garb and choosing looser, softer items that are altogether more comfortable. He drops to his knees and begins to rummage through the crates salvaged from his old quarters. Typically, it's right at the bottom, his hand grasping the leather that has lain rejected, out of sight, and out of mind, for all these long years.

He pulls the jacket out. It's dried out, the leather cracking in places, but his dad had bought it for him, for the last birthday he had spent with his family. It seems like a lifetime ago.

Ben pulls the jacket on. It's tight over the shoulders, and maybe an inch or so too short.

It's been a while.

He sits down at the desk, boots up the control panel, and then issues his first order. A ship is to be filled with food and medical supplies, and it is to be readied for a solo flight. He issues a thirty-minute deadline, and the order is acknowledged instantaneously.

Ben checks the time. Hux will be meeting with the other officers, delighting in delegation. He needs to move fast, if he is to escape suspicion.

He takes one last look around the quarters, accepting that there is nothing here for him at all. He throws on his cloak, pulls on his gloves, and, as a precautionary measure, dons his helmet. He's not sure he'll be able to get away with this if people can see his face. The mask, for its blank dark glare, strikes fear into people far more than his own expression, which can be read, anger anticipated.

The unpredictability has worked for him in the past, and he will use it to his advantage now.

Ben leaves the quarters - and his lightsaber - behind. He marches swiftly towards the bridge, one thing on his mind. He knows he can do it, has run through the coding several times over. Every time a hypothetical problem has presented itself, he has mentally crafted a workaround - one to override the protocol, another to deadlock the system.

He reaches the console, brushing the commander aside with a wave of his hand. The commander is only too happy to get out of his way, and Ben has full control of the ship. He grits his teeth as he swipes through the screens. He has to be sure that nobody will notice. He has to be _certain_.

He starts small, draining the power from the escape pods. And then, when no one bats an eyelid, from the fleets of TIE fighters. He is careful to leave his own supply ship untouched. His heart pounds in his chest, and he looks across the bridge, his vision hampered by his mask. Everyone is at their stations. The commander has taken to pacing around, hands clasped behind his back, surveying the work of his officers.

Ben releases the codes to every other ship on the First Order's roster, draining power, eliminating their escape routes.

It's cruel, in a way. But the murder machine is so big, so self-fuelling, that he can't stop it now. All he can do is save the worlds that have escaped its wrath so far.

Next, he deadlocks the system, securing himself as the only authority who can override it. He deletes half of the protocol files, and his path is clear to deliver his final command.

_Self destruct_.

The order goes out to every single ship, but there's not one blip. No alarm sounds, no lights flash. The engines hum on as normal. There is a twisting sensation in his stomach - one that suggests to him that the command hasn't taken effect. But he's not stupid enough to hang around to find out. The point was always that no one would know; that it would be stealthy, quiet, and the final moments would come without panic or disorder.

The First Order would simply cease to be.

Ben locks down the control panel, then abandons it. He feels the commander's gaze on him, but he knows better than to question the Supreme Leader. Ben Solo, and his plan, are saved by Kylo Ren's reputation. Something good had to come of it eventually.

He strides down to the hangar, cautious not to move too fast. He has plenty of time to get away before the countdown reaches zero, but he has never been more anxious to leave this hell hole. He hates everything about it - the infinite shades of grey, the harsh metals, the hoards of uniformed stormtroopers. Every single element makes him sick to his stomach, and he can't fathom how he's put up with it for all these years.

Perhaps his mind is finally his own.

"Sir, can I ask your destination? The crew will - "

"I told you I didn't want a crew. The destination is my business." The words are distorted by the synthesiser in his helmet, and the officer's eyes widen at the response.

"Of course sir," he replies, and he boards the ship. Moments later, crew members begin to file out - at least a dozen of them. Ben waits until the ship is completely empty, and the last supply pallet loaded on board. He strides up the ramp and whacks the button to close it with the side of his fist.

Ben pulls off his helmet, and the cool air of the ship hits his lungs. He tosses it to one side, and his gloves follow, before he shrugs off his cloak and flings it into the corner. The ship is probably too big to be piloted by one person - there are three seats at the front of the flightdeck, but Ben can manage. Theoretically, this should be the easy bit.

And it is.

He takes off smoothly, and soon he is beyond the range of their guns. Ben doesn't turn the ship around to see if his plan has worked, but he feels a tremor in the force, that grows and grows and grows, crescendoing until it feels like a scream inside his heart.

The light of the explosion is reflected off the atmospheres of the nearby planets. It flares and fades, and then it's nothing. An eerie silence hangs around him, and he feels little satisfaction from the completion of his plan. Across the galaxy, people will celebrate the fall of the First Order tonight. There will be fireworks, parties, music and dancing.

But he doesn't feel ready to rejoice in his actions.

He hadn't even had the courage to watch it all burn.

Ben focuses on the future. He needs to find Rey - and fast. They can't have gotten too far in the Falcon, and so he switches the controls to autopilot, closing his eyes, and leaning back in his seat. She's somewhere, but he can't isolate it to a location, or even a direction. All he can feel is her, existing, somewhere in the galaxy.

He reaches out with his mind, careful not to connect with her. She'll be angry with him still, he's sure. Actions speak far louder than words, and he's better off turning up with supplies, and showing her that he's serious about this.

As if blowing up the First Order wasn't serious enough.

Now he thinks about it, now he has the time and the space and the quiet to really think about it, his connection with Rey is much clearer, much stronger. It feels organic, more fluid, and far less brittle and unpredictable than when Snoke had been exploiting it.

Their connection is real. It's theirs, and theirs alone.

Snoke had lied. Of _course_ he had. It all seems so obvious now, in hindsight. Anakin had been right. Ben had come so close to falling into the same trap, to losing everything he had to the dark side.

He is grateful, truly grateful, for his family - both those who are gone and those who still remain.

Rey's position solidifies in his mind, and Ben leans forward, setting the coordinates, before making the jump to lightspeed.

The landing is bumpy, the planet littered with craggy rocks, twisted undergrowth, and unlevel ground. The ship is a little lopsided, the floor sloping beneath his feet, but it doesn't matter. The cargo is safe, and he's made it.

He lowers the ramp and walks down it, his eyes peeled for any blasters that may be pointed in his direction. The hangar door is solid - almost as solid as the one on Crait - but he's not going to try and blast through this one.

His palms are sweaty. He doesn't have a weapon - not that he wants to use one - but turning up here unarmed feels almost like a suicide mission. His heart pounds in his chest, thudding against the inside of his ribcage, his stomach doing somersaults as he approaches the door.

Ben eyes the control panel warily, still wholly aware of his experience the previous night. He reaches out a thumb, and presses it against the intercom button, the metal cool against his skin.

"_What_?"

It's her.

"Rey…" He hadn't gotten as far as planning this bit. He had been so consumed by the logistics, the codes, the back ups and the workarounds. He had been obsessed with finding her, so he could explain himself, but how does he explain this? How does he explain his family returning from the dead to mentally kick the shit out of him?

"Shouldn't you be with your beloved First Order?" Her voice his harsh, and the distortion of the intercom speaker only heightens its coldness.

"I destroyed the First Order," he says, the words coming out in a hurry. "It doesn't exist anymore, it's all ashes." The facts he can state, those are simple enough, and they seem to be good enough - or at least enough to pique her interest - because there is a great grinding noise as the hangar door slowly draws upwards.

Her feet come into view first - those soft boots that are of no use anywhere other than a desert planet. His stomach lurches as he remembers the scene Anakin had shown him.

It's not his destiny.

Her tunic comes into view next, the charcoal coloured one that she had been wearing throughout yesterday's fight. Her arms are still smudged with dust, and when her face comes into view, the dark circles under her eyes make him realise that as fitful as his own night had been, he's probably had far more rest than she has.

"What did you say?" she breathes.

The rest of the Resistance stand behind her, the pilot and FN-2187 at the front of the group. It's a diminished rebellion, and that's his fault. He knows he cannot forget that.

"I set all the ships to self destruct," he says. "There are probably some units still out there on different planets but...most of it's gone."

"Are you serious?" Rey asks, eyeing him with disbelief.

His stomach lurches unpleasantly. Had this been the wrong thing? Was he supposed to go to her and fight the war by her side, rather than calling an end to the whole thing with a brutal, cruel trick? Was his redemption supposed to come in serving her and the Resistance? As opposed to him making one final, sweeping decision?

"Yeah," he says, and he doesn't know what else he can add. But then the future flashes through his mind again - sand and death and rain. "Rey, I can't spend a lifetime fighting you. I won't do it."

Rey looks down at the floor, one thumb fiddling absently with the index finger of her other hand.

"I've seen the future," he says, taking a step towards her. He reaches out, taking her by the elbow, and she looks up at him, confused by his words. "I don't want it. I don't want to destroy the galaxy and I don't want to…"

He can't tell her what he saw. It won't help things.

She must see something in him though, or maybe she _feels_ it. This close, he is certain he can feel her own heartbeat, next to his. Both are slightly elevated, nerves fraught with stress. Her expression changes a fraction, and she looks at his face, drinking in every detail.

"What happened to you?" her words are a breath, and only he can hear them.

He opens his mouth to respond but his brain fails to come up with a suitable answer. Would she believe him? He doesn't even know what happened. It could have been a vision, or the work of the Jedi. He doesn't know whether any of it was real. But it feels real - the sand had burned his feet last night, the rain had left him shivering.

Maybe it doesn't matter if it was real.

"I had a vision," he says, and he shakes his head, chewing on his lower lip. "I didn't like it. So here I am. With you. If you'll have me."

Rey's hand moves to his face, her rough skin gentle against his cheek. She nods, her brown eyes glossed with emotion. "Of course," she breathes.

Ben is relieved from the burden of forming a response. Rey rises onto her tiptoes, drawing his face down to meet hers. Her lips are soft, and their connection shines brighter than ever. Instinctively he draws her closer, her slender form fitting perfectly against his own.

They break apart too soon for his liking, but he is compensated with Rey's brilliant smile, her eyes crinkled at the edges with happiness. He can't contain his own, and it builds inside him until he releases it in a laugh that sounds warm in his ears.

Considering he's been out of practice for so many years, it's a brilliant laugh - one he vows to become accustomed to once again.

"I brought supplies," he whispers to her. "On the ship."

"Of course you did," she laughs. She doesn't take her eyes from him, and he has no desire to look away from her either. He reaches down for her hand, and she gives it willingly. Ben raises it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles, careful to avoid the raw skin from their fight in the throne room.

"I need to see my mom," he tells her, and she nods.

"You do."

He releases Rey, his fingers slipping through hers. He misses her touch as soon as he is without it, but then he scans the small crowd of Resistance fighters and finds what he's looking for.

The group parts for her wordlessly, none dare saying a word against him in her presence. They will be led by her reaction. Her brown eyes fix his, and her brow set in a frown as she assesses him. He is briefly reminded of Anakin, but then he takes a couple of tentative steps towards her.

He is acutely aware of the pilot's hand, resting on his blaster, but there are greater things to worry about.

"Can I come home?" he asks, and though his voice is quiet, it echoes around the cavernous hangar. "Please?"

His mom's shoulders sag in relief. "You never needed to ask permission."

The words strike him like a blaster, regret burning through him. It's all so obvious now.

He's not obliged to think on it for too much longer, because his mom crosses the last few steps between them and pulls him into a hug. She is smaller than he remembers, though he is sure he is taller and broader. But she still radiates that same comfort and warmth that she did when he was just a boy with a scab on his forehead from an ill-advised speeder outing.

Ben closes his eyes, and thanks whatever powers exist for her continued place in the galaxy. He could have lost her so many times over the years, and the most recent one cuts deepest of all. But she's here, and so is he, and that's what matters.

She pulls away from him, and tugs on the edge of his jacket to try and smooth it into place.

"We'll have to get you a new one," she tells him, and he nods dumbly, his throat clogged with unshed tears.

His mom's smile only shines brighter. "I knew you were coming," she confides in him. "I felt the change in you."

"How?" he asks.

"Mothers always know," she replies, and then she looks past him to smile at Rey. "Well done," she says, as though a mission has been accomplished.

She should be thanking her family too - and perhaps one day he will tell her of the night that turned his life upside down. But for now, there's work to be done. He and Rey levitate the supplies into the base, and the Resistance tears into them, eating hungrily, and applying bacta bandages to wounds.

The Falcon sits at the back of the hangar, and Ben can feel his dad's spirit within him, swelling up at the sight of the old ship.

In the months and years that follow, Ben Solo is, at first, tolerated by the Resistance, and then accepted, until finally, he is loved, wholly and truly for the man he is. The group shrinks and shrinks as the new Republic grows, leading the galaxy towards a new future of peace, harmony, and healing.

As for Rey - who would _not_ die at Ben's hand - she would find the family she'd always wanted. She and Ben would build a life together, and the Solo household would become a place of joy, laughter, and warm welcomes for all who stepped over the threshold.

Ben would not be visited again by the ghosts of his family, but that night would stay with him for the rest of his long and happy life, altering what had seemed, at one time, an inescapable destiny.

But, as his father had observed, it was never too late to come home.


End file.
